She Hath Saved Me
by Ashlynn Lilacflower
Summary: Draco Malfoy is spending time in Azkaban, and is visited by only one person - Astoria Greengrass. Can she keep him from returning to the madness that gripped him before she rescued him? Or will Narcissa intervene? At HPFF under "Azure Seas. M for safety.
1. She Who Calls Me Her Love

**Author's Note**: Draco spent a little time in Azkaban, but not everyone wanted him to be there. Well, everyone wanted him to be there except two, and one was his mother.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the characters or Azkaban. Or the Malfoy Manor.

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Draco's PoV_

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These walls are cold. These walls are made of gray, dull stone. These walls were not meant for me. I do not belong here.

She knows it.

But I will die here. I will die, like my father. I will die, like all the others. That, or I will suffer a fate worse than death.

I welcome it.

There is no place for me outside of these walls, this prison. I do not belong. Not anymore.

Azkaban is my home.

She visits me sometimes, against everyone's will. The dementors don't even want her to be there, but there is little that they can do – her Patronus Charm is so strong, even stronger than my own, though that is not saying much. It takes the form of a flock of tiny finches, teasing and dancing everytime she casts it, just like her. She wills me to come out of my cell; she wills me to _want_ to come out of my cell.

Astoria Greengrass will ruin me. She will ruin all that I am with her tricks. I do not understand her.

But after two years – _just two years!_ – in Azkaban, my sanity begins to wane. I can feel it; I know the end of coherent thinking is growing nearer, even by the hour. She knows too. She finds me huddled in the corner of my cell, shivering in a cold that does not exist, for the dementors have gone. She crouches down and reaches through the bars, her cloak swirling around her. I shrink back from her hand. It is soft and pale, long-fingered. Filled with all that is pure and good, while I am filled with all that is tainted and wrong.

She sighs and turns, her profile magnificent in the oddly sharp yet dim light. Her dark hair has been piled upon her head, shimmering with little pins. Even I, in my shuddering stupor, can appreciate the curve of her lips, the fineness of her cheekbones… Astoria is beautiful.

Her voice, musical, seems almost unnatural when she hisses the words: "_Accio Draco Malfoy's Wand_". The incantation does not belong on her lips; my name does not belong on her lips. I notice faintly that the wand comes. She reaches through the bars once again, both wands in her other hand. "Draco, it is time," she murmurs. "You are freed." Astoria points her wand at the lock on my cell and mutters the charm. It clicks and creaks open, but I can do nought but shake my head.

Much to my surprise, my voice, cracking from little use, escapes my mouth. "Azkaban is the only place for me."

She shakes her head. The look in her ocean-blue, turbulent eyes tells me she is horrified. She pushes the door of iron bars inward and kneels next to me, taking my frozen hands in her warm ones, looking at me with desperate eyes. "Azkaban will never be the only place for you, Draco. Your place is with me."

All I could was look at her warily and shake my head, numb.

I do not, nor will I ever, belong with her.

There are no words to describe the place I belong, but I do not belong with her.

Tears begin to leak from her eyes. They are furious tears. "No one wanted me to come here. No one wants me to release you. No one wants me to be near you!" she cries, without a doubt waking the other prisoners. But they are silent.

"But I have come here, Draco," she continues softly, touching my cheek. I do not flinch, just look at her with dead eyes. "I will release you. I will be near you…" She raises herself up, brushes her lips against my forehead like a butterfly would land on a flower; lingers. Then she kneels once more, resting her head on my shoulder. A tear finds a trail down my neck from her cheek.

"Please, Draco…" she mumbled, breath soft on my skin. "Allow me to call you my love."

I do nothing but nod, lifting a hand from hers to stroke her hair. I pull the pins out one by one, letting the locks fall in disarray. I like it this way. I run my fingers through her curls.

She sighs again, but this time not from despair. This time, it is from relief. I hope.

When she finally pulls herself to her feet and me along with her, we are faced by what looks like an army of dementors. I want to scream. They will hurt her, kill her; torture her. That cannot happen to Astoria. That cannot happen to she who calls me her love.

She hands me my wand, and casts her Patronus Charm. The tiny birds take on a dementor each. It is quite a sight to see their chilling, rotting hands swatting at the finches, which are arrow-quick and too small to follow.

The wand in my hand feels wonderfully familiar. I try to think the Patronus Charm, but can find no happy memories to use with it. I seem to be without them, and Astoria can only hold back the dementors' attack for so long.

Astoria.

Quickly, I raise my wand and close my eyes, euphorically remembering every second of her visits. Every time my heart jumped in my chest when she held her tiny fingers out to me replays through my head. Every millisecond she lingered at my forehead when she graced my skin with the touch of her warm, soft lips. Every word she spoke to me. It all rings clear in my mind. My shell of silence and numbness shatters. Eyes still closed, my shout rings deafeningly in my ears, as does Astoria's gasp of amazement.

Opening my eyes, I see nothing but the silvery figure of a great lion, shielding my love and I from the dementors. They have run for cover.

"Come," Astoria pleads, taking my hand and nearly dragging me up a flight of stairs. It occurs to me that we are on the ground floor of a huge prison with thousands of dementors and wicked inmates. I step ahead of her, keeping her as safe as I can between our Patronuses and myself. It is the most I can do.

We race up too many stairs to count, adrenaline keeping us from collapsing at the roof. The dementors circle us now. Our Patronuses have winked out.

"Patronuses don't work on the roof," Astoria whispers, filled with a nearly tangible fear. She holds onto my hand like it is a lifeline – her needle-like claws threaten to rip my skin.

"Does Apparating work?"

"What?"

"Does Apparition work on the roof?"

"I don't know!"

Best give it a try.

I grip her arm and think of home. Of my room. That is where I want to be.

The world swirls, squeezes unpleasantly; as we land, I go unconscious. Somewhere, I can hear a scream.

A woman's scream.

It can only belong to one.

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	2. The Dearest of Promises

**Author's Note: **This is the second installment of _She Hath Saved Me_. I'm thinking of changing the name to "Mother Knows Best"... Tell me what you think!

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing that has to do with the world of Harry Potter.

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_Draco's PoV _

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I awake to the sound of a woman crying. Warm, wet tears fall unceremoniously on my face and in my hair. Taking a deep breath, I force my eyes open to look into my mother's ever changing blue ones. She is weeping as quietly as she can. Odd – I'd think she'd want to draw attention to herself – Mother is just that way. My head is in her lap. Both of us are on the floor in a room that I recognize as mine. Someone has changed my clothes – I no longer wear a prisoner's rags.

"Mother," I whisper, reaching a hand up to touch her pale cheek. It is smooth beneath my fingertips.

She looks at me – _really_ looks at me. "Draco," she murmurs back, staring at me with almost nothing but wonder in her expression. But something else hides behind her eyes… I cannot tell what it is.

Mother brushes my hair out of my eyes with gentle fingers.

"Mother," I repeat, catching her hand after letting her stroke my hair some more.

She casts a glance down at me. Her rain-colored eyes are brimming with more vulnerability than I have seen from her in a long while.

"What happened to the girl that Apparated with me?"

Mother's eyes harden and narrow. Does she not like Astoria? Does she not like the girl who saved my life; my soul? What is so wrong with Astoria that Mother doesn't like her?

"I am going to warn you once, Draco." Her long and brittle white-blond hair falls into a curtain around us. She leans closer to me, her blue eyes boring holes in my grey ones, searching for something she will not find.

"Astoria Greengrass will lead you away from me. I will not allow my only son to drift like that." Mother continues to gaze at me searchingly, her pale, delicate features fraught with something resembling concern.

"You will not hurt her," I hiss, hoping to scare her off a bit.

It doesn't seem to work at all.

"No, I won't hurt her. But if she hurts you, I'll have my excuse." With a violent gleam in her eye, Mother pulls away from me, letting my head and hand slide to the floor as she stands. More regal than a swan, she pushes her hair back and dusts off her long, colorless dress. "You will find wonderful _Astoria_," Mother mutters, voice filled with contempt, "in the dining hall. I think you'll find that your aim was a wee bit off." She holds up her thumb and index finger, indicating the tiny space between them. She sits on my bed, a smirk playing wickedly on her lips.

I am up like a man with a fire lit beneath him. As I sprint from the dark room, I hear Mother let out an uncharacteristic cackle. "Cruelty and pain have never become you," I call over my shoulder.

The laughter stops short.

I hurry through the house – it is like a maze. Astoria would be hard to miss – she would be among the very few that have dark hair. Mother is easy to doubt when she is in one of these moods; you can never tell if she is lying.

I find Astoria crumpled on the floor of the dining hall, just like Mother said.

She is covered in blood.

_Her own blood._

She is sobbing, but her eyes cannot see. No matter how frantically I wave my hand in front of her face, her eyes won't focus. They are blanker than those stone walls that I used to call home.

Her breathing is more like shallow panting. There's nothing I can do for her. Hoping I won't hurt her more, I scoop her up, an arm around her shoulders and under her knees. She is so tiny; so light.

She won't last long.

I hurtle through the yard, trying to reach the road as fast as I can without jostling her too much. It seems to take forever to get there… With every step, her breathing gets shallower and more blood pools in my footprints.

At last, I reach the road and put her down as gently as I can on the cobbled sidewalk. Immediately, her blood-stained dress leaves a trail on the stone. Fumbling a bit in my pockets, I finally manage to find my wand.

I wrench it out of my pocket and stretch my arm out in the direction of the street. Trying not to panic when nothing happens, I bend down to pick up Astoria again –

**BANG!**

The Knight Bus appears out of thin air behind my turned back. I am unable to brace myself when it shows up.

It surprises me so much I fall almost on top of Astoria.

She doesn't notice.

Scrambling to my knees, I pick her up. She's barely breathing now. Shudders rip down her small form in waves.

The driver is staring at us.

I glare at him, pointing my wand at him under Astoria's knees. Carefully maneuvering her on to the bus, I set her on one of the beds. "Take us to St. Mungo's _now_," I murmur to him, "or I'll curse you." Holding up my wand again, he shrinks back and takes off as soon as I'm sitting on the bed beside her.

The ride is horrible. The entire time, Astoria's head sits in my lap, lolling from side to side whenever the bus makes a huge turn. Her dark hair is slick with blood; her once-blue dress is stained nearly crimson. Almost every inch of the fabric has been soaked through.

I sit there, listening to her breathe.

That's all I do. That's all I _can_ do.

Leaning down next to her, I can't help but kiss her forehead. Her skin is still warm. I thank whatever god there is that she still lives. I sigh and straighten up, turning another sharp glance on the bus driver. "Will you _hurry up_? She is dying while you drive slowly!"

He steps on the gas and all the bunks are thrown to the back of the bus.

I make myself more comfortable, her head still in my lap. If she's jarred too much… I do not want to find out what could happen.

She rescued me. I'll save her. I've made a promise. It may not be verbal, but it's a promise all the same.

I intend to keep all my promises.

This promise is the dearest to me.

The bunks slam forward again as the driver skids into place outside of St. Mungo's. Picking up Astoria again, I climb off the bus, looking up at the great, lonely red-brick building.

It reminds me of my old home.

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	3. That Boy That She Misses

**Author's Note**: Here's the third chapter, a bit sooner than I expected :) Please review!

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the characters or the setting.

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_Draco's PoV

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They put Astoria on the fourth floor – the floor for "spell damage". I've never thought of Apparition as a spell, really. All the same, they tend her there.

When we'd arrived, the reception woman had taken one look at her and said something about a "stretcher, stat." A pair of Healers came running and took her from me. They took her to an area reserved for emergencies only, and I was forced to wait in the room they said she'd be placed in when they were done with her.

They'd said she would live.

I'd almost fainted with relief.

Now, I'm sitting in her room, waiting for them to bring her in. But it's taking so long… Worrying me. I begin to pace, and nothing but images of her come to mind. Astoria will live. I want to whoop. I want to celebrate.

But she's not back yet. I can't.

Impatience grates on my nerves. I take the stairs to the gift shop.

What would Astoria even want here?

There are cards, pillows, stuffed animals… I sigh and lean against a wall. _Would_ she want something from here? I scan a rack of toys.

That's when I see it – something glittery is hiding in the back, between a fluffy duck and a plush walrus. I reach for it and manage to pull it off the giraffe neck it's been hooked on. When I pull my hand away from the shelf, a small ring sits in my palm. Trying not to draw too much attention to myself, I put it back on the tiny giraffe's neck and take the giraffe with me to the counter. The clerk smiles at me and says I am clever for having put the ring on the gift – I suppose she assumes it'll go to a special girl that I wish to marry. But she's wrong – Astoria wouldn't marry me, even if I felt good enough to ask her.

After paying for it, I hurry back down the stairs. Right before I reach Astoria's room, I stop and look at the ring. It looks like a few simple bands of silver woven together – almost like threads loosely twined. I look at it for a moment, then take it off the giraffe's neck and pocket it. I don't need to give her the ring and the giraffe at the same time. The ring can wait.

She is there when I enter.

It takes all the strength I have not to run to her. Instead, I walk very slowly. She is asleep.

They've replaced her bloodstained clothes with a hospital gown, and her face is too pale beneath her dark hair. I sit on the edge of her bed, setting the giraffe plush on her blankets next to me. Taking one of her hands in both of mine, I attempt to warm it, to no avail.

I take a seat in the chair next to the bed, bringing the giraffe with me, and wait for her to wake up. Her small hand is in mine the entire time.

Eventually, I fall asleep.

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I wake up with a start.

Astoria's grip on my hand tightens. My grip on the little giraffe in my hand tightens.

Opening my eyes, I discover that she's looking at me. Her blue eyes sparkle with a mischief I've seen in them too many times. "Thank you, Draco," she whispers, and takes her hand from mine. She trails her now-free fingers down my cheek.

I probably turn bright red.

Trying to ignore that fact, I close my hand around the giraffe's tiny legs and offer it to her. "I found this in the gift shop. I thought you might like it," I say softly, looking at my shoes. They're in need of a good shine.

She giggles a little, a sound I didn't hear once from her while I was stuck in my old home. She was always just desperate to get me out.

Her hand moves from my cheek to ruffle my hair, and then to take the giraffe from me. "I like it," she says. "It reminds me of a little blond boy I used to know. He was six or seven… Always wanted to play with me." The fingers on her other hand find my chin and force me to look at her. "I think you knew him as well?"

Standing, I sigh and look away, shaking my head. "Not anymore," I whisper, and avoid her gaze.

"Well, I guess I'll just have to make do with this new Draco," she says. The signature sad little smile is in her voice.

I glance back at her. Tears glitter in her eyes. I go to my knees next to her bed and wrap my fingers in her long, rich hair. "Astoria," I murmur. She looks ready to break.

She does. The dam seems to buckle beneath the weight of everything that's happened to her in the last few hours..

Tears pour from her eyes and trail down her cheeks, pooling in her hair and on her blankets and pillows before soaking in. She reaches and wraps one of her arms around my shoulders. The other holds the giraffe close to her, as if she's trying to get warm. Not wanting her to be cold or lonely, I let go of her hair and embrace her.

She sighs and sniffles, then looks up at me with red-rimmed, puffy eyes. "I wish you could be carefree again, Drakey. I wish you could let go of Azkaban," she mutters.

I smile at my childhood nickname. "I try," I say. She's so small in my arms. "But Azkaban haunts a memory like nothing else. You've heard stories… You lose all hope there; you lose everything."

She nods and looks at her hand, which rests on my shoulder. She drums the fingers there and moves them to my neck. She smiles up at me, a sadness and a depth to her eyes I've rarely seen. Her fingers brush softly along my skin to cup my cheek. "Draco," she whispers, leaning closer. I can feel her breath on my lips. "Don't you know that now, my love, I won't let you go until I have what I want – that boy that used to sneak across the road at night to bring me wildflowers?"

"You'll have a hard time finding him," I reply.

"No," she says quietly. "I'll never find him unless you want to be him. And you don't want to be him. You want to be who you are now." Her blue eyes search my gaze, and then she leans against my chest and closes her eyes.

I catch just a whisper before she falls asleep.

"Which means I never have to let you go…"


	4. Verging On Despair

**Author's Note**: Fourth chapter, ahoy! Um... Yeah, not a lot else to say. I had a lot of fun writing this. I can't wait for Astoria to get more chances to be his temptation :D Please review - I live on reviews! Well, not really, but I do love them.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing you can recognize from Harry Potter.

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Draco's PoV

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There has never been anything I have dreaded more than the possibility that Astoria Greengrass might not wake up after she fell asleep in my arms. I did not want to disturb her, but even the Healers said it was still unclear whether she would live or die. They didn't think her Splinching was severe enough to have death written over her head, but they weren't sure.

And so I had waited, and they had explained.

Astoria's dress had been her savior – the tight stitches and form-fitting fabric had applied pressure to her wound, keeping the blood from pouring out of her torn veins uncontrollably. They'd said she'd been holding onto the last threads of life through pure will and defiance when we had arrived. It was one of the most grievous Splinchings they'd seen that had not included loss of limb – the slab of skin and muscle that covered her abdomen and held her internal organs in had been ripped from her torso. The dress had acted almost as a second skin, keeping her intestines safely inside of her body.

But she'd lost so much blood.

The hours pass too slowly after the Healers leave; I am left alone to my thoughts. They wander in aimless circles, threatening to overwhelm my mind with panic.

What if the worst should happen?

What if Astoria… dies?

All of it will have been in vain – her rescue mission, her carefully timed visits, her pursuit of my affection – all of it, wasted.

If she dies, I will not be able to bear it. I'll kill someone and get myself sent back to Azkaban to live out whatever half-life I can lead after that. Such an act would be incredibly selfish, but when I meet the dementors, it will not matter. There will be no happy memories. I will not have to remember her.

Astoria sighs and rolls over in her sleep, facing the chair in which I seat.

Almost unconsciously, I reach out a hand to stroke her silken black hair. She looks so small and frail, so weak, against the light of the single candle that brightens the room. Her skin is a perfect alabaster white, but it is too pale against her dark hair. Face relaxed in her slumber, Astoria's delicate lips shape a few familiar words: _My love_.

I cannot hold back a smile – she dreams of me. Or so I hope.

Year after year, my sleep has been haunted by flashes of her face. She lives in a manor that is nearly identical to ours, right across the street. We grew up together, played together, argued with each other. Though her sister was in my year, Astoria was the one with which I preferred to spend my time. While Daphne spent all of her spare time reading and hated interruptions – going so far as to hex anyone that walked into the same room while she had her nose in a book – Astoria had a little fire kindled within her. She wanted adventure. She wanted to rebel. She wanted adrenaline.

But, above all, Astoria wanted to be wanted.

Looking at her now, I wish I had the ability to give her everything she wanted. I have lost that, though – people change in Azkaban. I am cautious when she wants a rush. She finds happiness in the most trivial of things when I find them worthless. We are no match – I am resigned to believing in that, but she will not give up. I doubt she will ever let this go.

No.

I know she'll never let _me_ go. She has said so.

And even as that thought passes through my head and forces me to relax a little, her blue eyes shoot open and sparkle in the light of the single candle just before it gutters out.

We are left in darkness, blind but staring at each other as our eyes struggle to adjust.

I flinch when a warm finger trails down my jaw. Unperturbed, she lets her hand continue down my neck, ending its path just over the place that my heart beats frantically inside of my chest. It pounds fit to crush the ribs around it, threatening to burst through to burst through muscle and skin to surrender itself to her.

"Draco, my love, are you afraid of something?" Her question rings like chiming bells through a silence that had before been broken only by the whispering sounds our breathing made.

_I am afraid that you will leave me here, alone._

But I cannot answer her aloud. Instead, I take the hand that still rests over my heart, holding it between both of my own.

She seems to find that to be answer enough; in the next moment, she pulls herself closer to me with a rustle of sheets. Her fingers comb gently through my hair, arms bridging the empty space between us.

"You are aware, Astoria, that you very nearly died in an attempt to rescue a ruined man?" I ask, finding her seeming indifference to the situation that she put herself in unnerving. Through her fingers, I feel her shrug.

"I don't care," she says, resolute. "A ruined man can be rebuilt. The only thing that matters is that you are free." The words were unspoken, but they hung heavy in the air: _And you're with me._

Her hands suddenly become much more distracting. They roam over my chest and shoulders, relieving tension and rubbing out whatever knots they can reach. Her touch is so welcome that I do not trust myself with words. A sigh escapes my lips instead, and I give myself over to her soothing fingers.

Astoria is able to find every tight muscle and twitching nerve. She calms them one at a time, massaging out the stress of years in prison before latching on to the front of my shirt and pulling me close. Her breath is warm on my face. Even in the dark, I can see her eyes shine. We are nose to nose. "Am I tempting you, Drakey?" she breathes, closing her eyes and brushing her lips over mine.

I inhale sharply through my nose. Her lips are soft, so soft… But I quirk as defiant a smile as I can. "Not with that nickname," I whisper.

She opens her eyes and pulls away a fraction of an inch. I can almost feel her eyes probing mine, searching for something. A sly smirk creeps onto her face. "But I love that nickname. It reminds me of how you used to be… Cute. Awkward. Clever…"

"You're saying that I'm not clever anymore?" I ask, mocking offense. Her tone was light – she hadn't meant the quip.

Astoria blinks and looks away. "You haven't given me reason to think that you've retained your old wittiness. Azkaban changes people, as you've said so many times." She turns her gaze back to me, and for the first time, I see a glint of anger in its depths. "You're childish, you are. 'Azkaban changes people…' Change yourself, then, if this is not who you want to be!" Crossing her arms, she lets me go and rolls over, her back facing me.

I gape at her. But there's nothing I can do to appease her, aside from agreeing. So I stand and rest a hand on her shoulder. "I will try to change. But I can't promise that I'll be that carefree boy you said you remember. He is really gone."

She turns back over, holding my steady gaze with her heated one. We look at each other for a moment, stares locked. Then she sighs and takes my hand, studying every finger and line before looking up again. "Your word that you'll try?"

"My word."

There is silence, and she beckons me to sit on the bed beside her. She presses her palm into my chest, and forces me to lie back on the mattress. "Rest," she murmurs, kissing my forehead. "You must be ready for the morning. We leave at dawn, whether they want us to or not."

Nodding, I lace my fingers through hers and close my eyes, wishing for all the world that I hadn't had to make that promise. I really do not know if I'll be able to keep it.

But I fall into a deep, undisturbed sleep for the first time after we escaped from Azkaban. This time, my head is cradled in her arms, rather than her body resting against me. And that alone is a sign that everything is getting better.

I hope.


	5. Too Close a Call

**Author's Note**: Please review :) I work hard on this for you guys. Please let me know about typos and such =/

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing from the world of Harry Potter.

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Draco's PoV

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I have found, in the past, that if one is conscious and awaiting something, time creeps by slowly – too slowly. One's nerves begin to react to copious amounts of adrenaline pumping through the body, so that one becomes twitchy, apprehensive, and, all too often, paranoid.

If one is unconscious, however, time speeds by.

Far too soon, I am awakened by a sharp jab in the side. Blinking, the harsh whiteness of a hospital room presses in on my eyes. The only sound in the stark space is that of fabric rustling.

With a groan, I close my eyes, roll over –

- And hit the armrest of a hard, wooden chair before finally slamming into the floor.

A sharp giggle cuts through the air, echoing in the quiet room.

Opening my eyes, I turn over to find the speckled white ceiling and a woman's pale face in my field of vision, her blue eyes filled with mirth.

Astoria.

She kneels next to me, catching her fingers in my hair. "Good morning sunshine," she says, grinning impishly before gripping my hair with a strength I hadn't known was possible for fingers to have. Her pink lips lose their smile, and her laughing eyes harden. "The sun is ready to rise, Draco," she hisses, voice holding none of the things she claims she feels for me. "We must go, before someone discovers that St. Mungo's is harboring a criminal and healing a thief."

I wince. Astoria is volatile.

Grappling with her hand and trying to get her to let go of my scalp, I finally notice what she wears and realize that she called herself a thief.

She is wearing Muggle clothing: a black blouse, black slacks, and dark high-heeled shoes. Letting go of my hair at last, she grabs several layers of clothing off of the chair next to me and throws it in my face before walking to the sink across the room. "Put that on," she says over her shoulder, examining her hair in the mirror.

Sighing, I stand and lay the clothes on the hospital bed that Astoria had slept in just yesterday, still weak from heavy blood loss. Apparently, that weakness had not carried over to this morning.

The clothes she supplied me with are nearly the same as hers; the only difference is that they are several sizes larger and in men's' style. But the color scheme is precisely the same – black on black on black.

I pull off my grungy gray shirt, glad to be rid of it. The rough-woven fabric almost reeks of the aura of Azkaban: cold, hopeless, and inescapable. Right before I tug on the new black shirt, I feel eyes on my back, and the Slytherin pride spikes to a level it hasn't for a long time. "Like what you see?" I ask, not bothering to turn around.

"No," she replies, business-like, but I hear a hint of a smirk in her voice. "You're much too gaunt for my tastes." I gasp when light fingers flutter over my ribs, testing each one that is visible – her heeled shoes did not make a sound as she strode across the tiled floor between us. "Your bones are going to break through your skin if you don't eat more," she says, fingers gliding down my spine, pausing at every other vertebra.

"Hands off, Astoria," I growl, slipping the new shirt over my head. It feels a bit like she's taken a Beater's bat to my newfound pride. "If you're going to mother me, do it another time."

I can almost picture her scowl as she walks back to the sink and mirror, heels actually clicking this time.

Resigned to what might be a very painful day, I shed my old, torn pants in favor of the newer slack. Not bothering to put on shoes or socks yet, I turn to find Astoria huddled on the floor by the sink, arms looped around her knees. She clutches her wand in one hand and a toothbrush in the other.

She is shivering. Her eyes have glazed over.

I cross the room before I know what I am doing, and rest a careful hand on her back.

Astoria does not respond.

"Tori," I murmur, hoping to draw her out with her old nickname. It sounds foreign and feels wrong on my tongue after so many years of little use. Her distant gaze stays unfocused, but she looks at me. A small victory.

"Drakey," she whispers back, dropping her toothbrush. It rolls forlorn across the floor until it is out of sight beneath the bedside table. With her now-free hand, she strokes my cheek. "You're all grown up." A tear sparkles in her eyes; a watery smile forms at the corners of her mouth.

_Merlin, help me_.

Shouting voices echo down the hall outside of Astoria's room. Footsteps tap harshly on nearby tile floors.

They are coming for us.

Taking out my wand, I tuck one arm under Astoria's knees and the other under her arms, holding her small form close to my body. I stand, repressing the memory of what happened last time we Apparated, and visualize the gates of the manor – of home.

Just as I turn on my heel and into the crushing darkness, a door slams open somewhere and a jet of red light shoots over where my head had been milliseconds before –

- And then the rough, cold sidewalk is under my bare feet, telling me that I have made it home. The wrought iron gates open immediately for me, and the cool, stone walk turns pink as the sun rises behind the house.

Astoria still shaking in my arms, I head up the long, winding path, praying that no one but my mother and the old house elf are home.

But, of course, not all prayers can come true or even be answered positively.

As soon as the doors are in sight, three figure burst through them: my mother, a blonde man, and a brunette woman I know all too well.

Pansy Parkinson stops halfway down the front steps, pressing her hand to her mouth and gaping at me, the blonde man by her side. My mother pushes past them, running to meet me. A gruesome smile flashes across her features when she sees Astoria, who suddenly stops shuddering and goes limp.

Her eyes are wide, frozen, and open. The sunrise's reflection shines dully in them, and with one more deep inhale, her eyes flutter closed and her form stills.

What seems like an eternity of tension later, her chest rises and falls once again.

Astoria lives on.

My mother lets out a quiet snarl, turns, and walks back into the house without another word, slamming the door behind her.

The rest of us, left uncertain in the yard, hear her scream of rage from the open window of her room and see the antique vase fly unceremoniously into the open air, hitting an oak tree on its way to the hard ground, where it shatters.


	6. A Scandalous Game

**Author's Note**: Hey guys, you haven't heard from me in a while... Sorry about that -_-' I wrote this yesterday because I just... felt like I needed to :) So here's the next chapter, and I'm going to take the yucky message off the last chapter about reviews. But, please review? *puppydogeyes* I work hard on this.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing from the world of Harry Potter.

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Draco's PoV

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If there is one pureblood family my mother might have the gall to erase, it is Astoria's: the Greengrass line. I have heard their story innumerable times – I have been lectured on the reasons the Black family's enmity toward the Greengrass family is justified. The list is lengthy, but the most prominent reason – the one that Aunt Bellatrix would chatter on and on about when she was alive – was that the Greengrasses refused to join the Dark Lord. Even though every one of them had been in Slytherin and saw themselves as superior to others of lesser status, they refused to join with Voldemort. They argued that violence, though effective, was not what magic should be used for; they said that magic had a larger purpose that that.

If Henry and Vermillion hadn't taken Daphne on that trip to the lake, they would have been killed for their ideals. Instead, they left an ill Astoria at home for the weekend while they went on a miniaturized vacation.

They drowned the day after they departed. Astoria was left an orphan at seventeen – though she was a legal adult, she was in no way ready to face the world. She came into the care of Mother and I (well, it was only me for a while; Mother was temporarily admitted to the insanity ward at St. Mungo's after Father died).

What I know of Astoria's family is built on stories, lies, and my own experience. For example, I know that Vermillion Greengrass, who was Pansy Parkinson's aunt, pursued my father though her years at Hogwarts before settling down with her husband, Henry – this story is my mother's justification for loathing Vermillion's daughters, of which Astoria is the only one left. I know that Aunt Bellatrix lied about how Daphne, Astoria's older and deceased sister, snuck around behind Blaise Zabini's back when Daphne would have nothing to do with him in the first place. Where she came up with such rubbish is beyond me; Blaise never took a liking to bookish girls.

And so, when Pansy Parkinson shows up at my house engaged not to Blaise, but to Lucian Bole, I am quite surprised.

Pansy, like Blaise, didn't like very smart boys – she may have claimed to love me for a while, but I was merely the most well-connected, young pureblood male remotely close to her age that held similar values. In actuality, she preferred the empty-headed Quidditch jocks such as Marcus Flint and, well, Blaise. That is not to say that she wasn't clever – she just liked to be seen as clever without putting effort into it.

I am surprised that she is engaged to Bole because not only is he a doctor, but he is an author, as well. He is also, astonishingly enough, knowing Pansy's tastes, a half-blood, though he lives in the world of purebloods – grand parties, favor at the Ministry (he was one of the few that managed to keep his favor even after the War); a lavish lifestyle should have belonged to him. But, even though he has the money and the influence to live luxuriously, he does not. He attends all the prestigious gatherings, yes, but the man lives humbly.

"Lucian and I have picked out an adorable cottage in the forest to live in after we get married," Pansy gushes as they sit side by side on the sofa. We are in the library, and we have just settled Astoria comfortably in the guest room next door; we will know if Mother tries to do anything to her. Pansy, despite all of Astoria's tendencies to be volcanic and cruel, has always liked Daphne's younger sister, though I cannot say that Astoria thought so well of Pansy. Astoria preached of the older girl's frivolity and lack of wit night and day while we were all at Hogwarts.

Astoria is two years younger than me: she is nineteen.

Pansy beams at me when I smile weakly at her, and then continues. "There's a small stream and a lake on the land, as well, for the children to play in."

I blink. I cannot help myself – I look from her to Lucian to her stomach and back again. "Children?" I ask, bewildered. Pansy, of all the people in this world, wants children? She _hates_ children, or at least, she would rather drown than speak to a first year the last time I saw her.

Lucian laughs, and I would almost swear an earthquake's epicenter has formed right underneath the Manor. Pansy's eyes visibly widen as she smiles daintily at him and takes his hand. "No children yet," he booms merrily, "but yes, there will be children eventually, or so we hope."

I am fairly certain those are the first words he has spoken directly to me while he has been here.

Pansy glances at me from under her lashes, and I realize that this is not a couple happily in love that I see before me; it is her idea of a great game – a gamble in which, no matter how the dice roll, she wins. She has poor Bole, the ex-Quidditch Beater from Slytherin House turned scholarly doctor, in her net, and she believes that I am still waiting for her, standing alone in the wings. If she falls, she thinks I will be the one to catch her. And she is mistaken.

But how do I tell her that without looking a fool? She will make a mockery of me. The only way I can think of to get past her thick skull and into her thoughts is the way that I used to – when she is alone and vulnerable to influence. Of course, I am not who I used to be – the old Draco would leap at the chance to lead Pansy down some twisted path. The new Draco must find a way to influence Pansy for the better and lead her away from definite destruction.

This is _not_ going to be easy. But I have to do it. Saving an innocent man from the wrath of Pansy Parkinson (and her mother) will be worth my time.

Because then, maybe, the stupid girl will let me alone and I will not have any scandal left on my plate.


	7. The Unexpected Puppeteer

**Author's Note**: Hey everyone :) I'm back again with another update, but it's longer this time :D Enjoy, and please review!

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing from the world of Harry Potter.

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_Draco's PoV

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I nod, silent, at Lucian's confirmation of Pansy's statement. Children. They want _children._ Of the pair, Lucian is the only one that sincerely wants to be a parent; Pansy is merely letting him wander down his own dream road.

Just as Pansy opens her mouth again, I stand. I will not hear more of this. I need to get away – I must not participate in her game any further. "I am going to make sure that Astoria is alright," I say. "Inky, our house elf, should have dinner ready soon. Feel free to look around, but if Inky complains of you –" I shoot Pansy what I hope is a stern look – "I will have you both thrown out of the house."

A heavy silence spreads itself over the room, dripping from the ceiling and down the walls, as the three of us look at one another, all of us waiting for someone to move. I am first; I head for Astoria's bedroom door, open it on squeaking, burdened hinges, and close it as softly as I can manage behind me.

I am alone now, except for the quiet, sleeping breaths of Astoria. Breathing deeply, I lean back against the door and slide my fingers across the dark, cold wood. The doors in this house are heavy; they are not like those stupid hollow doors that Muggles have in their houses. One cannot hear through the doors in this house. These are made from the finest ebony that could be found in Africa – my father had them imported as a gift for my mother, who has always adored the warmth that wood can bring out in the architecture of even the coldest home. Of course, when one imports an incredibly dark hardwood, one will most likely find that it does not add much warmth to a home.

My mother. I sigh. I have inherited so many things from her – her love of wood, her tendency to play with fire, her secret hatred of the Dark Lord. Even her hidden feisty side once belonged to me, though now it is much less obvious.

But I never inherited her loathing of the Greengrasses, not even in part.

When we were children, Astoria and I were "married", as all children are when they are that age. We even had a little playhouse to call our own. By the time I told my mother that I had been "married" to Astoria for a few days, I was already telling the other children that I was too old for little kid games. I told Astoria that I wanted a divorce – I'd expected her to at least cry at this horrendous news. Instead, a fire had burned bright in her eyes. She grabbed the front of my shirt, shoved me out of the playhouse in to the driving rain, and shut the door behind me. Only, of course, to open it and tell me that we were divorced before slamming it once more in my face.

I can feel a tired smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

I had been the one to cry that day.

Nearby, Astoria groans in her sleep. I look up from studying the whorls in the floor – I can never tell what kind of wood it is – to cast a glance in her direction. She has rolled to face the window; light is shining dimly through the sheer silver and emerald curtains. Her raven-colored hair is wrapped in tangles about her shoulders, and her pale skin shocking with hair that dark laid against it. I know that her eyes are of the iciest blue and that, when they are open, they display her state of mind to the world.

Tiptoeing as quietly as is possible on a hardwood floor with dress shoes, I make my way to the opposite side of the room. I can see her face, now – her eyelids flutter, frantic, as she dreams. I hope her dreams are good ones; from here, I cannot tell what she is dreaming about.

I turn away from her. I am watching her sleep – that seems like an invasion of her privacy, now that she has her own room in my house. It should be wrong for me to be in here.

Looking out the window, I can see that autumn arrived while I was imprisoned. All of Inky's herb plants have been removed from the outside garden; she probably potted them and put them in the greenhouse, like she has every year for the past… long while.

To our credit, after Dobby was set free, we waited a while before finding another elf. And it took a while to find one that was willing to work for _us_, the infamous Malfoys. Inky actually showed up before we even knew she was looking for work. She is much more pleasant than Dobby was – always smiley and happy and glad to serve. She can keep her mouth shut and heart open at the same time. And she never tries to beat herself for doing something wrong, either – but that's mostly due to the face that I am fairly sure that she has done nothing wrong while she has been here. In any case, we are glad to have her here, and Mother loves her to bits.

Outside, a peacock – one of those ridiculous albino ones that my father loved so much – struts over to the birdbath and takes a sip of the rainwater that has gathered there, drinking his share.

Without warning, there is a gasp and a frenzied rustling of sheets behind me. Whipping around, I find that Astoria is sitting bolt upright in her bed, breathing like she has just run a marathon. Her cerulean eyes are wide and bright with terror, and staring at me. I cannot help but approach her warily. "Astoria?"

Closing her eyes, she takes a long, hissing breath inward before opening them again. They are calmer now, less fearful and more focused. She reaches toward me and takes my hand; she pulls me toward her and I am forced to sit on the edge of the bed or risk toppling into her lap. "Draco?" she whispers. Her voice shakes and her spare hand brushes the hair away from my eyes. Her delicate hand is cold and clammy, and I notice that her fingernails are bitten down to the quick.

I'm here, Tori," I murmur back. If I can coax her into telling me what is wrong, maybe I can fix it.

"It was horrifying, Draco," she blurts, still in low, hoarse tones. Like she once did when she was five and I was seven, she balls her hands in the fabric of my shirt – only this time, she pulls me closer and weeps into my chest rather than pushing me away.

Something is wrong. Something is very, _very_ wrong. Astoria does not cry often – granted, she has had quite a few reasons to cry in the last few days, but Astoria, as a general rule, cries less often than _I_ do.

"What, Astoria?" I ask. "What did you see?"

She shakes her head, leaving wet streaks on my shirt. "Please, I don't want to tell you, my love."

"You must."

At that, she looks up at me. Eyes streaming and red, she exhales, wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and looks me some more, as if she is weighing how much I can bear.

Whatever it is, I can take it, as long as Astoria doesn't have to hold up a great burden by herself – last time that happened, she almost died.

"Tell me, _please_. It could be important. I do not want you to feel threatened or sad here."

Astoria takes a shuddering breath. "I don't even know whether it will happen. It was just a nightmare," she says, false confidence lacing her voice.

"Well, let us hope it _was_ just a nightmare."

A breathless little laugh escapes her lips, and suddenly I am as breathless as she seems, heart a-thunder. I look away from her, wondering what is wrong with me.

She takes the opportunity of my turned head to whisper eight simple words in my ear, her warm breath tickling my skin.

I sit back and look at her just to stare at her. It would be an understatement to say that with her words, Astoria has shocked me. In truth, she has utterly bewildered, astonished, puzzled, and perhaps even addled my brains a bit.

Silently, I pray to whatever divine body is out there to save us, help us, or at least improve any chances we have.

Pansy Parkinson and Lucian Bole are not here to visit temporarily. My mother will allow them to stay for however long they would like.

This game that Pansy is playing is more complicated than just Lucian and me – Astoria is a part of it as well.

And, just above the stage, my mother laughs as she is pulling all of the strings.

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**Author's Note**: I know, I know. You probably want to know what those eight words were, right? Here, I'll tell you - they're the first eight words in the next chapter!

Sorry for the cliffhanger, but it was necessary. Please review? The button is right down there...


	8. Lost & Found

**A/N: If there are any fantastic readers still waiting for the next chapters out there, thank you! You'll be getting five today! Please review, lovies~**

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"Your mother is the one behind Pansy's game."

That is what Astoria said to me.

I could not – cannot – believe it. In a world where family ties are so valued, my mother has put her connections and her reputation on the line, and all of it for an attempt to get Astoria out of my life. Or, at the very least, to get Astoria away from me.

Mother does not understand: Astoria and I are on a bit involved romantically, and not even sexually; we are simply allies on the hostile front that my mother has put before us. This is a war that Mother is waging against Astoria and me – though Pansy looks like the opponent, my mother is directing her.

In all of her battles – every single one throughout these long years with and without Father – my mother has won. She beat her illness and insanity; she beat Vermillion Greengrass in the pursuit of that handsome Malfoy boy, so long ago. She outwitted Voldemort and kept Harry Potter alive long enough to let him finish the Dark Lord before sending the boy back to the Weasley girl. My mother, in games such as these – ones that can lead to scandal, defiance, and wavering loyalties – is second to none.

Astoria lets go of me as I rise from the bed, eyes on the view outside the window. Pansy and Lucian look up at me from the yard below, where they scuff through the fallen and decaying leaves. The brunette girl beams, raises a hand, waggles her fingers. I do not wave back. Lucian only gives a small nod of acknowledgement and runs his fingers over one of those stupid white peacocks' plumage. As I turn away from the window, I catch a glimpse of Pansy's fallen face. I ignore her.

"Why are we here, Astoria?" I ask, exasperated, burying my face in one of the pillows lying on her bed.

A light touch on the back of my neck and she is stroking my hair, fingers working thoughtfully through the few knots when she finds one. A sigh fills my ears and my head turns to look at her.

She is staring at the ceiling, eyes darkened by thought. Astoria looks at me. "We are here, my love, because it is the only safe place left for us." Her eyes are like liquid ice – clear, piercing, and inescapable. "We have nowhere else to go."

I suddenly struggle for oxygen.

This is the only safe place left for us.

That is how alone we are.

I should never have let Astoria take me away from Azkaban, for look what I have done for her – that is right; I have done nothing. Nothing but get her hurt and put her in mortal danger. Nothing but ruin her future. Nothing but make her an accomplice to the walking crime that I have become.

I pull out the ring I got for her at the hospital; it is buried deep in my pocket. I have not a clue how I managed to hide it from her and keep it in my possession at the same time. Astoria is like a raven – she adores and thieves pretty things.

I take her hand and drop the ring into her palm. She stares at it. "Keep this with you," I murmur, hoping she will follow my request. I can feel my eyes pleading as she looks up, her eyes sharp and soft at the same time. "I do not know if it will keep you safe, but it will, at the very least, mean that you carry some piece of me with you."

Astoria allows herself to flash a faltering smile in my direction while she slips the tiny golden ring over her pinky finger. The two miniature flowers' interlocking petals meet at the front of her finger with tiny diamonds set in the central depths, gleaming with mischief. A timid knock sounds through the thick door and both of our heads bob up. After exchanging a glance with Astoria, I call, "Who is it?"

"It is Inky the house elf, sir," comes the squeaky reply. "To ready Miss Tori for dinner."

Astoria grins and tells Inky to enter before I even have the chance to open my mouth. The door is heavy enough that it takes quite a bit of effort for Inky to open it. Finally, after much creaking and groaning from the entryway, I rise from my seat on Astoria's bedspread to open it for the elf.

When Inky at last enters the room with a breathless "thank you,sir," Astoria squeals with glee and claps her hands together once with joy. "Inky!" she cries, opening her arms for a hug.

The small house elf walks forward, hops up on the bed, and, to my great astonishment, wraps her slight arms around Astoria's waist. Pulling back after a few moments, Inky offers her a shy smile. "Is Miss Tori ready to go down to dinner?" she asks, holding a hand out toward the open door.

Astoria meets my eye, her expression clearly stating, "Go. And close the door on your way out."

Thankful and far less burdened now that Astoria is in a lighter mood, I wave her off and move toward the door. On my way out, I hear her say, "Yes, Inky, I'm starving. Help me get ready?" Suppressing a grin, I shut the door as softly as possible, trying not to interrupt their time together. Astoria needs girl time – preferably with friends that actually want her around.

As the latch clicks into the frame behind me, I let out a breath I was not aware I was holding. Astoria is safe with Inky, and the solitude of the empty library comforts me. The plush carpet – for lack of better words – poofs up around the edges of my polished black shoes; it is Slytherin green.

There is hardly a thing in this house that is not devoted to or built upon House and family pride. It is sort of sickening, actually. Everything is bedecked in green, silver, black – even the gardeners wear uniforms to match the household theme.

I lean against the wall next to the cold fireplace.

I never, ever thought I would come so close to being ashamed of my family.

But here I am, and I have realized that the Malfoys are nothing if not ridiculously ambitious, cold, and cruel.

Sinking down, I turn to stare into the very lifeless, very ash-filled fireplace, and reach for my back pocket – where there is no wand.

Understandably, I begin to panic, for what is a wizard without his wand? He is nothing.

Patting down my jacket, trousers, even my sock, I do not find it. Standing up, I survey the room. It is, as usual, devoid of human life, and so does not hold a wand.

Where was the first place I went upon entering this God-forsaken house?

My room. Astoria was temporarily placed in my bedroom while Inky readied her guest room. My wand has to be there.

Striding as swiftly as I can down the hallway that leads out of the library, I reach my door and twist the handle. Only to find, of course, that it is to no avail – someone has locked my door. With a curse, I ram my foot into the offending hardwood. I am grateful the thing does not kick back.

Forgetting about trying to make as little noise as possible, I head back to the library, the sound of my own stomping (and half-limping) feet filling the echoing space of the hall around me. I swear it on Salazar Slytherin's grave – this may very well be the death of me.

Upon entering the library, though, I stand stalk-still, for there is my wand, sitting on one of the sofa's glass-topped side tables. But before my very eyes, a shockingly white hand darts out over the arm of the couch and wraps its fingers around the carved hawthorn rod. Much to my dismay, Pansy's voice goes along with it as the hand and wand disappear out of sight back behind the sofa. "Looking for something, Draco?"

I could strangle her for what she is doing to me. Rounding on the couch, I find her lying on her back across the cushions, her eyes bright and staring up at me. My wand is folded in her hands, which lie on her stomach. As much as I want to, I will not forcibly take it from her. "Give it back, Pansy," I growl, trying to avoid using her name like it is a dirty word. I am not sure that I have entirely succeeded.

Apparently I have not, for Pansy clucks at me and tucks the wand into the folds of her dress. "Sorry, Drakey," she says.

"Pansy…" I hope the warning in my voice is enough for her to stop this nonsense.

I should have seen the glint in her eye as a warning. I should have taken my wand from her when I had the chance.

But I didn't. Pansy shakes her head. "No deal."

"What do I have to do?"

Her sly smile tells me that was definitely the last thing I should have said. "Let me see," she says, holding a finger to her cheek in thought. I can almost see the light bulb go on in her head when she says, "I know!"

Reluctant, I ask, "What?"

A mischievous grin spreads across her face, and she leans up and hisses lustily in my ear. "Kiss me like you used to, Draco?"


	9. The First Mistake

"Kiss me like you used to, Draco?"

I nearly fall backward, so filled with horror am I. Muggles have used the phrase "stuck between a rock and a hard place." I believe that that line applies perfectly well to this situation: stuck between forcibly stealing my wand back and kissing Pansy Parkinson.

If I am to be honest, I will say that forcing her to give it back is much more appealing than kissing her. But I was taught to be a gentleman to the ladies of my House and to the guests of the Manor.

"I doubt that Lucian would appreciate that gesture, Mrs. Soon-to-be-a-Bole," I snap at her. I do not have any other cards to play.

Pansy tsks and flicks her hair. "That is no way to talk to a lady, Draco," she says, wagging a finger in my face.

I am very tempted to break the thing off – she would certainly deserve it, for everything wrong she has done over the years.

"Oh, but my dear Pansy, you are not a lady," I reply, taunting her. My stalling and excuses will run out very shortly.

"Really, Drakey?" she says. She smiles a wicked smile and unfolds herself, standing smoothly, barefoot on the thick carpet. Her feet, pale beneath the hem of her long, black dress, nimbly propel her toward me. Finding a handhold on my tie, she drags my face down so that it is closer to her level. She tilts her head slightly to the side and her cool breath breaks in soft rivulets over my face. "What am I?" she whispers, voice silky and tone like honey.

I cannot help myself. I say the first thing that enters my mind. After all, she is standing in front of me in a dress that has a bodice like a corset and an impossible neckline that dives nearly to the bottom of her ribcage – a giant V right over her sternum. Just a moment ago, she practically bribed me to kiss her.

"You, Pansy," I murmur, sweet as I am able to manage without snarling, "you are a whore."

I think it is needless to say it, but I earned a slap for my quip. I rub my stinging cheek.

"Good old Draco," Pansy says snidely. "You can always count on him to come up with the most original insults."

I give her a crooked smile through the pain. There will definitely be a handprint-shaped red mark across the side of my face for a few days. I have been branded.

She still has me by the tie, and unfortunately, I cannot jerk away from her without ruining whatever chance I have left at retrieving my wand from her deceiving clutches. She seems to read the thoughts in my eyes.

"Now, Draco, I do believe that you owe me for that nasty remark of yours," Pansy says, closing her eyes. She moves a little closer to me and sniffs – there is, at most, half an inch between us. She leans back, opens her eyes, and exhales, Madame Pudifoot's "Bella Dolce" perfume washing over my face along with her spearmint breath. "You always smell so good, sweetie," she whispers, seemingly innocent eyes staring up at me from under thick, dark lashes.

I know that she is far from innocent.

Taking a shuddering breath, I realize that I should have realized sooner that I have no way out of this. With another breath, I know that she will, no matter how cruel she seems, give me my wand back when we are through here. One more, and I realize that "Bella Dolce" smells like the holiday sugar cookies that Inky likes to bake.

"What would you have me do?" I ask, my voice shaking. I am reluctant to even hear her speak the words.

But her eyes search mine, and all she says is "kiss me."

Simply "kiss me."

Nothing else. No other demands.

She is so much simpler than she used to be.

And so I do it. I kiss her. And I forget who I am.

But I remember how it used to be. How we used to be. How it always has been.

Her lips are soft, so soft. Pink rose petals could not be as pleasant. Her arms go around my shoulders, fingers lace themselves together behind my neck. My hands wrap around her small waist and pull her closer; my fingers play in her rich, dark hair. She is so close that I can feel her breath hitch in her chest, and I know she stands on the tips of her toes to reach my mouth. Her body presses itself against mine, maneuvering me until we are lying on the couch, legs and arms tangled in an unintelligible mess.

I run a string of flutter-kisses down her throat, to the line of her bare collarbone.

A door opens somewhere in the distance, but I am too preoccupied to care.

There is that huge V in the neckline of her gown, barely covering enough skin to be considered decent. I run two fingers down it, and Pansy lets out an involuntary giggle. Her hands are at my hips, attempting, I think, to ease down my trousers. And, as ashamed as I am to admit it, she might have succeeded if she hadn't been stopped.

"Draco Malfoy, if she isn't off you in two seconds, I will personally see that you are locked in the basement for three months without female attention. Which includes Inky."

Pansy, of course, hits the floor before one second goes by.

"Astoria," I gasp, astonished at her wrathful expression. Maybe not too astonished, but astonished nonetheless. Her wine red dress seems to bring out the flames burning in her blue eyes and flushed cheeks. She stands between her open doorway and the end of the sofa that I am still lying on, her fists clenched and chest heaving. Her gaze turns from me to Pansy, a storm roiling in the depths of her eyes.

Pansy glares back defiantly.

"I ought to kill you myself for what you just did to him," Astoria snarls.

Pansy smirks. "A little fun never hurt anyone," she counters, standing. "Besides, we had a deal, didn't we, Drakey?" Straightening her skirt, Pansy holds out my wand.

Sure that I am positively leering, I snatch it away from her. Sitting up, I point my wand at Pansy. "What did you do to me?" I ask.

"Just a little love potion smeared on the lips, Drakey," Pansy says, smiling primly. "Absolutely harmless."

"Harmless?" Astoria cries. "Maybe to you, but if you used what I think you used – "

Pansy studies her nails and nods, rolling her eyes a bit, as if she is listening to old news. "Amortentia."

Before I can react, Astoria has me by the hand and is pulling me off the couch and to her room. With surprising force, she slams the heavy door behind us. Even through the thick hardwood I can hear Pansy's laughter.

"What?" I ask Astoria, who has sat down on her bed, wide-eyed and staring blankly at the floor. "What is wrong now?"

Astoria shakes her head, closes her eyes. "It's the Amortentia, Draco," she says. Opening her eyes, she takes a deep breath and glances away before focusing on me. "The moment it touched your tongue – the moment you tasted it – you became addicted to the potion, and to her. You will see very soon."

I was afraid, once, that Astoria was going to die. I was frightened that Mother was going to scheme against us. I was terrified that I was going to have to kiss Pansy Parkinson to get my wand back.

I am absolutely petrified at this.

Swallowing hard, I ask the questions that need to be asked as methodically and unfeelingly as I can. "How long until I am desperate?"

"All the books say one week – a week and a half if you are strong."

"How long will it last if it is not cured?"

"Forever."

And of course, the last question: "How do you cure it?"

Astoria looks away from me, to the floor. I walk to her side, lift up her chin with one of my fingers. "Tori?"

Her gaze snaps to mine abruptly. "There is no cure."

I feel my eyes widen to the size of galleons. I was right to be petrified.

"You are addicted for life."

* * *

**A/N**: Ooo, scary cliffy~ Let me know what you think! Please review :)


	10. AG & DM

"Kiss me like you used to, Draco?"

I nearly fall backward, so filled with horror am I. Muggles have used the phrase "stuck between a rock and a hard place." I believe that that line applies perfectly well to this situation: stuck between forcibly stealing my wand back and kissing Pansy Parkinson.

If I am to be honest, I will say that forcing her to give it back is much more appealing than kissing her. But I was taught to be a gentleman to the ladies of my House and to the guests of the Manor.

"I doubt that Lucian would appreciate that gesture, Mrs. Soon-to-be-a-Bole," I snap at her. I do not have any other cards to play.

Pansy tsks and flicks her hair. "That is no way to talk to a lady, Draco," she says, wagging a finger in my face.

I am very tempted to break the thing off – she would certainly deserve it, for everything wrong she has done over the years.

"Oh, but my dear Pansy, you are not a lady," I reply, taunting her. My stalling and excuses will run out very shortly.

"Really, Drakey?" she says. She smiles a wicked smile and unfolds herself, standing smoothly, barefoot on the thick carpet. Her feet, pale beneath the hem of her long, black dress, nimbly propel her toward me. Finding a handhold on my tie, she drags my face down so that it is closer to her level. She tilts her head slightly to the side and her cool breath breaks in soft rivulets over my face. "What am I?" she whispers, voice silky and tone like honey.

I cannot help myself. I say the first thing that enters my mind. After all, she is standing in front of me in a dress that has a bodice like a corset and an impossible neckline that dives nearly to the bottom of her ribcage – a giant V right over her sternum. Just a moment ago, she practically bribed me to kiss her.

"You, Pansy," I murmur, sweet as I am able to manage without snarling, "you are a whore."

I think it is needless to say it, but I earned a slap for my quip. I rub my stinging cheek.

"Good old Draco," Pansy says snidely. "You can always count on him to come up with the most original insults."

I give her a crooked smile through the pain. There will definitely be a handprint-shaped red mark across the side of my face for a few days. I have been branded.

She still has me by the tie, and unfortunately, I cannot jerk away from her without ruining whatever chance I have left at retrieving my wand from her deceiving clutches. She seems to read the thoughts in my eyes.

"Now, Draco, I do believe that you owe me for that nasty remark of yours," Pansy says, closing her eyes. She moves a little closer to me and sniffs – there is, at most, half an inch between us. She leans back, opens her eyes, and exhales, Madame Pudifoot's "Bella Dolce" perfume washing over my face along with her spearmint breath. "You always smell so good, sweetie," she whispers, seemingly innocent eyes staring up at me from under thick, dark lashes.

I know that she is far from innocent.

Taking a shuddering breath, I realize that I should have realized sooner that I have no way out of this. With another breath, I know that she will, no matter how cruel she seems, give me my wand back when we are through here. One more, and I realize that "Bella Dolce" smells like the holiday sugar cookies that Inky likes to bake.

"What would you have me do?" I ask, my voice shaking. I am reluctant to even hear her speak the words.

But her eyes search mine, and all she says is "kiss me."

Simply "kiss me."

Nothing else. No other demands.

She is so much simpler than she used to be.

And so I do it. I kiss her. And I forget who I am.

But I remember how it used to be. How we used to be. How it always has been.

Her lips are soft, so soft. Pink rose petals could not be as pleasant. Her arms go around my shoulders, fingers lace themselves together behind my neck. My hands wrap around her small waist and pull her closer; my fingers play in her rich, dark hair. She is so close that I can feel her breath hitch in her chest, and I know she stands on the tips of her toes to reach my mouth. Her body presses itself against mine, maneuvering me until we are lying on the couch, legs and arms tangled in an unintelligible mess.

I run a string of flutter-kisses down her throat, to the line of her bare collarbone.

A door opens somewhere in the distance, but I am too preoccupied to care.

There is that huge V in the neckline of her gown, barely covering enough skin to be considered decent. I run two fingers down it, and Pansy lets out an involuntary giggle. Her hands are at my hips, attempting, I think, to ease down my trousers. And, as ashamed as I am to admit it, she might have succeeded if she hadn't been stopped.

"Draco Malfoy, if she isn't off you in two seconds, I will personally see that you are locked in the basement for three months without female attention. Which includes Inky."

Pansy, of course, hits the floor before one second goes by.

"Astoria," I gasp, astonished at her wrathful expression. Maybe not too astonished, but astonished nonetheless. Her wine red dress seems to bring out the flames burning in her blue eyes and flushed cheeks. She stands between her open doorway and the end of the sofa that I am still lying on, her fists clenched and chest heaving. Her gaze turns from me to Pansy, a storm roiling in the depths of her eyes.

Pansy glares back defiantly.

"I ought to kill you myself for what you just did to him," Astoria snarls.

Pansy smirks. "A little fun never hurt anyone," she counters, standing. "Besides, we had a deal, didn't we, Drakey?" Straightening her skirt, Pansy holds out my wand.

Sure that I am positively leering, I snatch it away from her. Sitting up, I point my wand at Pansy. "What did you do to me?" I ask.

"Just a little love potion smeared on the lips, Drakey," Pansy says, smiling primly. "Absolutely harmless."

"Harmless?" Astoria cries. "Maybe to you, but if you used what I think you used – "

Pansy studies her nails and nods, rolling her eyes a bit, as if she is listening to old news. "Amortentia."

Before I can react, Astoria has me by the hand and is pulling me off the couch and to her room. With surprising force, she slams the heavy door behind us. Even through the thick hardwood I can hear Pansy's laughter.

"What?" I ask Astoria, who has sat down on her bed, wide-eyed and staring blankly at the floor. "What is wrong now?"

Astoria shakes her head, closes her eyes. "It's the Amortentia, Draco," she says. Opening her eyes, she takes a deep breath and glances away before focusing on me. "The moment it touched your tongue – the moment you tasted it – you became addicted to the potion, and to her. You will see very soon."

I was afraid, once, that Astoria was going to die. I was frightened that Mother was going to scheme against us. I was terrified that I was going to have to kiss Pansy Parkinson to get my wand back.

I am absolutely petrified at this.

Swallowing hard, I ask the questions that need to be asked as methodically and unfeelingly as I can. "How long until I am desperate?"

"All the books say one week – a week and a half if you are strong."

"How long will it last if it is not cured?"

"Forever."

And of course, the last question: "How do you cure it?"

Astoria looks away from me, to the floor. I walk to her side, lift up her chin with one of my fingers. "Tori?"

Her gaze snaps to mine abruptly. "There is no cure."

I feel my eyes widen to the size of galleons. I was right to be petrified.

"You are addicted for life."

* * *

**A/N**: Ooo, scary cliffy~ Let me know what you think! Please review :)


	11. The Flight of the Lioness

When I awake, the first thing I notice is that whatever room I am in is filled with some kind of summery light. The second is the great pounding in my skull that comes with such a light. The third is that Hermione Granger is standing by the window, sipping what appears to be a cup of tea.

Struggling to sit up and hoping that I will have the strength to Apparate, or, at the very least, the strength to crawl away from her, an involuntary groan escapes my mouth as a jet of pain shoots down my spine. Hermione, of course, whips around, sets her tea down on a small table, and rushes to my side. "Lay down," she orders sternly, and with one hand on my chest, pushes me gently back into the pillows.

She sits down on the edge of the bed. As she presses a hand to my forehead, it is all that I can do not to flinch away from her. This goes against everything that I know – to let a Muggle-born look after me, even if she is a Gryffindor and was Head Girl – it is wrong. No matter how reformed I claim to be, the force of habit is not easily broken.

Her hand drops to her lap and she sighs. "Still feverish…" she mutters. Looking me in the eyes, she asks, "So, Draco, are you going to tell me who and what you are addicted to?"

My mouth, I am sure, gapes open. How could she know? "What?"

She shrugs. "You have all the symptoms," she replies, pointing to a chalkboard on the wall opposite us. From this distance, most of the small, neat handwriting is illegible – except the category of "Not," under which "Astoria Greengrass" is listed. The title of the investigation seems to be "Draco's Love Potion Addiction."

Every moment, I grow more and more suspicious. Hermione Granger, the fiancée of Ron Weasley, the man who cannot stand to be within sight of me unless he is attempting to capture or kill me, is assisting me – trying to cure me of this wretched ailment that Pansy has placed upon me. To what end or ulterior motive, I have not a clue.

Hermione must have noticed a quizzical look, for she says, "Draco, I need you to understand something, and I also need you to understand that it is not something that is easy for me to say." She looks away from me, out a window, and then back. Her brown eyes are on the brink of overflowing with tears. I have not once seen Hermione cry, even through all the stress of our seventh year. A crying Granger is just not something that I am used to – she only ever cried with rage or passion, if she cried at all, and I cannot once recall having witnessed it. Therefore, as I see her eyes glitter with unshed tears, I hold my arms out to her for an embrace, all qualms at her blood status forgotten for the sake of a human kindness.

I wait as patiently as I can for her to tell me what I must understand.

"Ron," she mumbles into the collar of my white cotton shirt, "I have broken off our engagement. He is too obsessed with the hunt to pay me any kind of proper attention… And when he does, it's horrible."

I pat her back and sit in mortified silence as I wait for her to continue. Waiting, once again, is all I can do – this time, it seems that I am incapable of moving without pain. If it were otherwise, I would have brought her tea to her and made her sit on the bed to relax before she told me whatever else is hard to say.

She sits up, sniffling, and wipes furiously at her eyes. "He yells, throws things. He frightens me," she says, and even as she thinks about it, I can see the fear growing, far back in her eyes. "And he is paranoid. He thinks that because I'm leaving him – because I've left him – that I'm switching sides. He thinks I'm joining you, helping you to escape him, because I know his moves so well. Even Harry can't talk him out of it." She stops talking to give a reluctant smile. "I figured that I might as well prove him right. Aside from that, I know that you are innocent of the crimes that the Ministry has convicted you of."

No one knows the crimes that I was convicted of – my mother was determined to keep it a private case, and it was, as such, very private… Though the drowning of Astoria's family was highly publicized. I was convicted of planning and carrying out their murders; my motive, to be sure, was ridiculous – "They would not join Voldemort's followers." He was dead by that time, and our name was cleared from the books as Death Eaters, except for my father's, who was sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban for his insistence that the Dark Lord would rise again and that he was, indeed, a Death Eater. My case, the murder of Henry, Vermillion, and Daphne Greengrass, was wholly fabricated – the Ministry just felt the need to pin the blame on someone, and who better than a Malfoy? It was almost as if they were determined to make it look like a pureblood feud.

"What crimes do you think I was convicted of, Hermione?" I ask her, trying not to sound guarded or guilty. I am innocent, and most people do not know the reason I was sent to Azkaban, but that makes me far more suspicious when presented with reasons full of rumor and falsehood.

She takes her tea from the small table and sits down by my feet again, looking at me between swallows. "Well," she says, "when the Greengrasses drowned on their vacation, you and your mother were one of the few who knew where they were going, since it was only a weekend getaway. They'd left Astoria at home, in the care of their maid, so she had an alibi, and Narcissa was in Diagon Alley with friends, according to your file… You were the only one left. Inky wasn't in your service than, and even if she had been, they wouldn't have taken her testimony into account…" Hermione seemed almost to be talking to herself now, and she was staring out the window opposite her. She looked at me again. "I wish you had not been so wrongly judged by so many, Draco. I hope we can set the record straight, if you will take my help." She offered her hand for shaking.

Instead of taking it, I shake my head. "I cannot let you do this, Hermione," I say. "If you can help me with the so-called addiction I have, fine. But I can't let you help me with anything else. Your reputation would be ruined, and you'd probably be added to my list of alleged lovers." Sighing, I push myself up, ignoring the strange pain that travels the length of my body.

"What's wrong with being on your list of alleged lovers?"

I freeze. With wide eyes, I slowly turn to look at her. "Hermione," I say. "Do you realize what you just asked me?"

She shrugs.

"I'm not even going to answer that. Have you gone mad?"

She scowls at me. "No. I was only asking, since having a Muggle-born on your list would surely top anything that anyone else can think of in the way of scandal."

"Hermione, come on – "

"Apparently, we're not good enough for anybody, even if we're the brightest. Harry's mum was smart, and I'm smart, and most of the others are, too – "

"Hermione, please, stop this."

"Ron was always copying my homework, and so were Harry and everybody else. There is very little appreciation for people that do their own work nowadays, let me tell you – "

"Hermione!"

She pauses in her rant, and looks at me. "Yes, Draco?"

Relieved that I have finally gotten her attention, I ask, "Why is it that you seem to think that being on my list would be, in any way at all, good for you? I am a fugitive, Hermione. I've been blamed for three murders. I'm no good company, and if you aren't away from me soon, you'll be a fugitive, too."

She doesn't appear to be paying attention anymore. I snap my fingers in front of her eyes. She glares at me. "Hermione, listen to me," I plead. "I don't want that."

She gives me a peculiar look, one that I can't place. It gives me a certain foreboding, though – there is a want for danger in her eyes, in her smile. "But what if I do?"

* * *

**A/N**: You guys must be getting tired of these cliff-hangers by now... I'm sorry! But it's how I write. :P So please review?

Next chapter's up in two minutes! :)


	12. The Path of Temptation

I cannot believe her – Hermione Granger, ever studious and ever innocent, has been completely honest and faithful to the concept of switching sides. When she was on their side – the Aurors' side – she was protected by her friends and prudent to an extreme degree. And now, as she has taken my side, there is no one to watch out for her. She has thrown caution to the wind, but still lives for others.

I am suddenly caught by the realization that we are both alone in the world; we stand where no one else will, and hope that no one will knock us down.

Watching the flame that dances uncannily in her eyes, I wonder if she's thought this through – obviously she has, but I have to wonder… Hermione has always had the intelligence that one can find in a book, but does she know what she is up against in the real world?

There is nothing for me to do but stare at her – bewildered to the point of speechlessness, I will not answer her. The question she asked is in dangerous territory.

Silent, I simply look at her. The blaze in her eyes slowly dies, and is replaced by cold anger.

"What's wrong with you?"

The words slice through me like a blade, and I wince. Honestly, I had expected her to throw herself back into the whole love potion investigation. The Hermione I once knew has changed. And all of it because of the hardship she went through with that Weasel. This new Hermione even comes with the mood swings installed. It's almost frightening, really.

Inhaling, I sigh. "Too many things, Hermione," I reply, lifting the blankets off of my pajama-clad legs, trying not to wonder how the green and white plaid flannel came to be there. "What really happened to you? Why are you so different?"

The look she gives me would kill an elephant.

"Do you really want to know, Malfoy?" she asks, almost growling with some kind of mix of defensiveness, animosity, and a dangerous kind of eagerness.

I swallow hard. "Only if you want to tell me…?"

Her eyes light up like torches again. "Have you ever been under the Cruciatus Curse, Malfoy?" Her voice is strangely high, and an image of the Dark Lord flashes through the darkest places of my mind for a moment. I shiver.

"Not for long."

She giggles – actually giggles. "Some of your wonderful lady friends decided to teach me a lesson," she says. "And when they were done, they left me in an alley in London to rot. It took Ron and Harry almost half a week to track me down." Eying me, she crawls onto the bed, and, feline-like, begins slinking toward me on all fours. I try to avoid looking at Hermione, but my attempts are feeble.

"What happened then?" I ask, needing to be distracted. She has managed to clamber over my legs and into my lap; we are chest to chest, faces only inches apart. She stares at me with her blazing brown eyes. I hold my breath, uncomfortable. This is wrong on far too many levels to be even remotely right. Closing my eyes, I brace myself for whatever might come next.

"Well," she murmurs, angling her head to the side. "They fixed most of my problems." She tilts her head up, toward the ceiling, lips slightly parted. Looking at me through her long, dark lashes, Hermione whispers, "Don't you think so, Draco?"

Wary of being seduced – again – I place my hand on her collarbone and gently push her away. "I'm sorry that they did that to you," I say, sincere. Not only do I have to deal with her now, but she will never be the same.

She smiles. "I'm not sorry," she says, weaving her fingers with mine and forcing my hand against the headboard. In my face once again, she breathes, "It means that I can do this."

With her other hand, she grips my chin and pulls my lips down to hers. And she isn't gentle about it, either – my already sore head explodes with pain. Groaning, I push her away from me and fall back against the bed, burying my face in the pillows. If this is what it takes to get her to leave me alone, I will gladly stay in bed for the rest of the time she is like this.

A hand rubs my back, and I instinctively turn over to see who is kneading my shoulders. Bad idea number one.

She is on me in an instant – all I can do is catch her around the midsection so that my aching body isn't tortured all over again. And with my hands on her waist, I roll her over to try to gain some control over her insane antics. Bad idea number two.

Hermione is as unbridled as an animal, and she uses that to her advantage. She has no qualms about playing dirty now – those Slytherin girls must have really done her in. Both of her hands tangle in my hair, roughly pulling me down. She kisses me in a way that is so passionate it is almost brutal, and my lungs beg for air. Turning my head to find oxygen, I try to get up – to walk away from her. Out of this room, out of this house – right back to Azkaban, if that is what it takes for her to let me go.

But she simply rolls me over, and a small pain bites into my spine. Defeated, I surrender.

Bad idea number three.

* * *

When I wake up, it is still dark out. Starlight shines through the open window, bringing with it the warm air and heady scent of summer. Yawning enormously, I turn over to get out of bed – only to find that there is someone there. Her brown hair is tousled, and she sleeps with a certain amount of peace.

That is when I notice that my clothes are missing. Mentally cursing, I look at the girl and recognize her graceful form.

And then I curse myself some more, until I run out of things to call myself. Dammit.

Rolling over, I attempt to go back to sleep, hoping that this will all have been a dream. A horrible, wrong, insane dream – because if this isn't a dream, that means two things.

One: Hermione Granger is no longer on my list of alleged lovers.

Two: Hermione Granger is the only one to occupy a spot on my list of confirmed lovers.

I suddenly long for the cold, gray stone walls that I once called home.

* * *

**A/N**: Poor Drakey, got seduced again... Or did he? Keep reading for more details. ;D And review? I have cooookieeees...


	13. Surrealism

Birds warble through the open window and the air smells of sunlight when I awake. Out-of-season sunbeams pour through across the panes and onto the carpeted floor, a light breeze ruffling the sheer, translucent curtains. Everything about this place is unnatural - it is summery when it is actually autumn; bright pink roses bloom in the garden outside; Hermione -

Hermione. I sit up. There is something wrong with Hermione. Women of the Slytherin House used the Cruciatus curse on her. And I...

Looking down, I find my black V-neck and green and white plaid pajama pants where they are supposed to be - on me. My eyes widen. Could it have been a dream? All of it?

I search the room for her; she is nowhere to be found. She is not at the chalkboard, nor is she sipping her tea by the window. And she is not in my bed. The sheets on that side aren't even rumpled.

As I slip off the mattress, something crashes outside, like plates breaking. I flinch and freeze, and then I hear her voice: "I can't believe it. I've done it again. Help me with this, will you?"

A man's deep voice agrees.

Slowly creeping across the carpet to the door, I find that it has been left ajar. Out in the hallway hang photographs of Hermione - and Viktor Krum. They line the walls, their life together laid out before my eyes. Viktor soaring through the air at the World Cup; the opening dance at the Yule Ball. A scene from a wintry cabin hangs foremost before my face. In that one, they are sitting at the hearth, laughing and drinking what looks like hot chocolate.

Hermione has a whole other life. It is impossible that she would throw it away for one night with me. If I had known, I would have made more of an effort to resist her... If anything happened at all. Every moment, the chance grows likelier and likelier that this was a dream.

But I cannot shake it off - I should know a dream from reality. And what happened last night does not fit into either category.

Uncertain, I walk into the hall, nearly tiptoeing. There is a door across from mine, and down the corridor is a room with a tiled floor. Assuing it is the kitchen, I move toward that end of the hall. The eyes of the photographs watch me as I pass, but after being exposed to things like that for the entirety of my short life, that does not bother me - they are only curious to see who I am. A few of them shrink back in their canvases as they seem to recognize me, holding hands over their mouths.

Peeking around the corner, I discover that I was right - the room is a kitchen. White tiled floors with white cabinets and dark green countertops fill the space, along with pan racks hanging from the ceiling above the stove. The entire room has an air of such cleanliness it's almost sterile, but that is to be expected. It _is_Hermione's house, even if her boyfriend is one brute of a Quidditch star.

But, of course, stereotyping is frowned upon.

In the center of the kitchen, the pair of them stand - wrapped in each others arms, doing nothing but breathing. I look at them for a moment, admiring their ability to just take a moment and stop. And then I rap lightly on the doorframe with my knuckles, interrupting the beautiful moment. Viktor looks up, alert, but Hermione turns her head and wipes at her eyes. My eyes narrow. Did he make her cry? Why does she weep?

"Good morning," Viktor says, letting Hermione pull away from him. She bends to take more plates from the dish washing contraption she seems to have been unloading, picking out five at a time with one hand and placing them in Viktor's waiting arms. He reaches up to put them in their proper places in a high cabinet - on a shelf that Hermione could not possibly reach without standing on her toes. It is no wonder that she dropped things.

"Morning," I reply, studying Hermione closely. She seems to have composed herself, but I cannot help wondering about her. What on earth has happened here?

Viktor must have noticed my look, for he places a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "I think Mr. Malfoy would like to speak with you, Hermione," he said, looking me in the eye. His gaze is slightly threatening, though why is beyond me.

Hermione straightens up, both hands on the counter as if to steady herself. She simply stands there for a moment, breathing - I watch her shoulders rise and fall. She is tense about something; that much is clear. She has not said a word to me, and whether my 'waking dream' was real or not, she should have at least spoken.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, beginning to worry. Even if she insulted me, I would be relieved. Viktor is verily speaking for her.

Without turning, Hermione takes a shuddering breath and points back toward the hallway. "Go back to your room, Draco. I'll be with you in a moment."

Puzzled, I just follow her request and take a seat on my bed. I am tempted to eavesdrop on whatever is said after I leave the room, but there is nothing to hear - the pair are silent. What on earth have I done to upset them so? Have I even done anything?

Thoughts begin sprinting in a loop through my mind.

_If Hermione really did come to bed with me, Viktor must hate me... But that would have been her choice... And what am I doing here, anyway? Why can't I remember what the concrete details, the real ones, of last night?_

I am shaking my head, trying to get rid of the strange, blended thoughts when a knock sounds softly from the other side of my door. "Come in," I say, looking up. Rather than Hermione, though, I see Viktor Krum.

I am so incredibly confused.

"I'm sorry about Hermione," Viktor says, shutting the door behind him and sitting in a chair near the window. "She's a bit touchy after one of her moods hits," he explains, but I still do not understand.

"Moods?" I ask, head tilting slightly to the side.

"She didn't tell you?" Viktor says, eyes widening slightly. "Her story?"

I shake my head again, the image of Hermione's cat-like, slinking form slipping to the forefront of my mind. "She was actually tortured?" I ask, bewildered. "I thought... I was dreaming, yes?"

Viktor leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. "I don't know. You're badly in need of medical attention, and she meant to give it to you yesterday, but from the way she's acting, things didn't go as planned."

I put a hand to my face. I can almost feel my skin heat up.

He comes to sit on the bed next to me, patting me roughly on the back. "It's alright, you know. I'm fairly certain that you fell asleep while she was talking. At least, that's what I can pick up. I don't think she did anything to you," he says, probably hoping to make me feel better. It does not work.

I get up off the bed, clutching at my hair. Hermione _was_tortured. I didn't imagine her telling me that part. But does that mean that the whole kitty act was real, as well, or that I imagined what I saw and heard what she told me? Things are beginning to get complicated.

"I think I am on the edge of going insane," I murmur, mostly to myself.

"You're not," a feminine voice says from the doorway, one that I, for some reason, have failed to even think about while I have been in Hermione's house.

Spinning around, I take a breath when I see her leaning against the open door, Hermione at her side. She smiles at what must be the surprise on my face, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Viktor grinning at us. I cannot care. She is here.

My love.

"Astoria," I whisper, and run to herrun to her, spinning her around. She squeaks a little, and her eyes sparkle with laughter.

If home is where the heart is, I have found mine again - and now I know why I felt so befuddled here.

Astoria was not here to straighten me out.

* * *

**A/N (please read the post-script)**: Aw, not so much of a cliffhanger that time, huh? The next update will take a little longer than this time... Five chapters appearing at once is kinda rare. :P So be patient, and it will show up soon-ish.

Love,

~AL

P.S.

You can also review while you're waiting. I love to get reviews, honestly. They always make my day, flames or not. Almost four hundred hits in the last four days with zero reviews to show for it is a little sad, don't you think? ;) So pleeeease review. I'll love you for it.


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